


24 windows

by naughtyspirit



Series: Smut, Fluff and Compliments [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Boys In Love, Boys Kissing, Christmas, Fluff, Kissing, M/M, Oral Sex, Sex, Smut, advent calendars
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-07
Updated: 2013-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-03 22:25:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1073764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/naughtyspirit/pseuds/naughtyspirit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes has willingly destroyed John Watson's advent calendar. John is unamused and insists that Sherlock replaces it.</p>
<p>He does. Smut ensues.</p>
<p>Sequel to 29 days - http://archiveofourown.org/works/931763/chapters/1813046</p>
<p>~</p>
<p>John had long held the opinion that Sherlock was carved out of some magic type of marble. His body had scars, had marks that spoke of a past John hadn't entirely uncovered. John never tired of watching him move, enjoyed resting in bed while Sherlock stalked round the bedroom, explaining his latest theory, completely unconscious of his own beauty. It was the one place where he didn't seem to calculate everything and John loved the moment when Sherlock, having declared his genius, jumped back in bed and became almost giddy in his desire to do everything all at once.</p>
<p>Naked, Sherlock could stop traffic and on at least one memorable occasion had actually done so.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I always promised I would come back to 29 days as although it's possibly one of the least read, I enjoyed writing it so much.
> 
> This is to all the people who so very kindly sent me comments, feedback and love. You are all marvellous! xxx

The advent calendar was ruined beyond all reparation, every single door torn asunder and the chocolate suspiciously missing.

John was far from impressed. One of the things he liked about Christmas, (and to be fair there were a great deal) was the opening of doors, each confirming that it was a day closer to the no-obligation day John revelled in. He liked having one day of the year where he could stay in his pyjamas all day, could lounge on the sofa, eat too much and indulge in everything that pleased him. It might not hold anything other than Hallmark value, but it was very much a John sort of day before he took a deep breath and dealt with the rest of the world again.

This year John hoped to do more than stuff his face with rich food. This year John had made a change to his life that had allowed a couple of announcement and a requirement for a suit. He still lived in 221b comfortably, but the room on the top floor now functioned as a secondary science lab and he spent his nights sleeping in Sherlock's bed, if not always with Sherlock himself. Married, John Watson felt comfortable, able to look forward to small but significant events in life and he had hoped that Christmas with Sherlock this year would conclude with steamy and somewhat tinsel decorated sex.

That was the plan, but the mistletoe he'd hung over the door had disappeared and his advent calendar lay in a soggy and slightly charred mass on the table. He lifted it up by one corner and raised an eyebrow at Sherlock's indignant expression. "What happened?"

Sherlock pushed his goggles onto his forehead and shrugged. "If you wouldn't leave your things lying about where they can get in the way, they won't get damaged."

"Lying about? Sherlock, it was on the fireplace."

"As was the candle you insisted we light for when we have company," said Sherlock. "And you said we'd be having company."

"Mrs Hudson!"

"Is she not company?"

"She's…" John paused and glanced over to the fireplace. "Nothing else is burned."

"Nothing else said Cadburys on it or presented a ridiculous snowman grin," said Sherlock. "It caught fire, John. I tried to put it out and rescue whatever passed for chocolate in each door, but it was quite ruined."

"Ruined?"

"All of it, yes. Well, you _will_ buy the cheap stuff."

John's eyes narrowed. "It's my favourite."

"I'm well aware of that."

"And you destroyed it."

"Destroy is a strong term. It was an accident, John."

"Destroyed," said John. "So you can replace it."

Sherlock winced. "I'll get you something next year. Something less…snowman-like."

"This year," said John. "I want-"

"John," said Sherlock and pulled his goggles free as he stepped forward, hand out to reach for John's own. "You are wonderful, you are magnificent. You do not require a cardboard box full of cut price chocolate to see you through an entire month."

"I want one. I like guessing what's behind each door."

Sherlock huffed. "It's always chocolate! It's not even a puzzle. _Every_ door contains chocolate. There's no surprise in it. You don't need something like that. I can take you out, we can go to dinner at one of those places. There's a restaurant near Hangman's Wood that serves exquisite Thai food. You'll love it."

"I want an advent calendar."

Sherlock licked over his bottom lip. "I won't buy you one. I refuse."

"You begrudge me an advent calendar?"

"I begrudge some offensive bit of tat sitting on our fireplace. I mean really, John. I tolerate the baubles, the tree and even the jumpers you will insist on wearing even though you know you shouldn't. I tolerate the people who come on Christmas day and talk as though it's a treat to see one another, even though they saw one another only the day before and weren't nearly so impressed. I do all that and this year you and I will be staying up late on Christmas eve to watch films I doubt anyone should be forced to watch. So please, spare me this." Sherlock pressed a kiss to the corner of John's mouth. "You don't need an advent calendar."

John pushed his tongue against his cheek and looked back at Sherlock. "Then do something else."

"Hmm?"

"Something else," said John. "If it's the cardboard you object to-"

"And the chocolate."

"-and the chocolate, do something else. Find me something else to mark the days."

Sherlock cleared his throat and stepped back, one hand on the table as he looked back at John. "Well I can clear this up. and we can-"

"Sex is not replacing my advent calendar."

"Isn't it?"

"No," said John and folded his arms. "You're not getting away with that."

"Are you sure?" asked Sherlock. "You've never turned me down before. Well, once. Twice. Although we were at a crime scene that time and you had turned a little green."

"I'm not turning you down," said John. "Just pointing out you can't always buy me off with cheap and dirty sex."

"I am not cheap and dirty," said Sherlock and licked over his bottom lip. "Oh. That can be arranged."

"Replacement advent calendar," said John and dropped the mess into the bin. "I'm going out for a drink with Mike. Fix it by the time I get back."

He reached for his jacket and walked toward the door as Sherlock followed him round. "I think you're being unreasonable."

"Nope. Perfectly reasonable. You want to see unreasonable, do nothing. And no, that's not really an option."

He closed the door firmly behind him and headed out, determined to get a few beers under his belt before he returned to Baker Street. John didn't doubt that Sherlock would do something. Their entire courtship was built on Sherlock doing something outside his comfort zone and the man was deliciously inventive. Not always the most productive in the real world, though when he wanted to, Sherlock could literally move mountains. Most of the time it was limited to Sherlock's own interests and thankfully John was a firm favourite.

It didn't mean that John no longer had to deal with body parts in the fridge or that since he'd stood in front of witnesses, John was no longer left unthought of at crime scenes. On the contrary, John often found himself lost and frustrated with the man he loved and a long discussion revealed that while Sherlock considered love to be something you tolerated and learned to manage, he didn't understand why John needed to hear it more than once. Sherlock said it at least once a week, mostly in the long stretches of the night but often in a yell from the bottom of the stairs if he considered it had been too long between declarations.

John embraced every last bit of his life and while he still woke to the occasional nightmare, he felt he had purpose. They saved people, sometimes because Sherlock was ridiculously astute, sometimes because John refused to give up. They worked as a team and they saw parts of life other people missed. They mattered and John gave quiet thanks that attaching himself to a madman had turned out to be absolutely the right idea. While he drew the line at a signature Christmas card, both their names sat neatly together on the few gifts that left 221b and John liked seeing that too.

By the time he returned home, his fingers and nose were cold and his belly was pleasantly warm. Mike had insisted on buying a few extra rounds to celebrate the old days and while John wasn't drunk, he was a touch merry and took two attempts to get his key in the front door. The night had drawn in behind him and the first day of December declared London a Wintery zone. John pushed his hands under his arms as he mounted the stairs and paused only when Mrs Hudson hurried out and called up to him.

"Going home," he said when she said his name. "Nothing's on fire. We should be grateful."

"He's been making a heck of a racket," she said. "Is everything all right with you two?"

"Fine," said John. "Things banging about?"

"A bit," she said. "It sounded like he was moving furniture at one point and I've told you about the rug."

"The rug'll be fine," he said and leaned down awkwardly to kiss her cheek. "So he hasn't been out?"

"Well I don't keep tabs on you two," she said pointedly. "I don't listen in. I'm not nosy."

"Of course you're not," said John. "Look, I'm going to head up, I'll make sure everything's okay. You have a nice night, okay?"

She smiled at him, reminded John about the little gathering the following Friday and slipped back inside her home, leaving John unsure what penalty he planned to exact if his advent calendar hadn't been replaced. He could confiscate Sherlock's goggles, or his bunsen burner or, if Sherlock had made absolutely no effort, John felt perfectly entitled to box up the microscope until reparations had been made. John grinned as he reached for the door and pushed it open, gaze fixed firmly on the fireplace, which was empty, as indeed was the rest of the living room.

"Sherlock?" he called as he looked round for signs of sulking. "I'm home. You in?"

"Bedroom."

John raised an eyebrow as he walked through the kitchen toward the room in question. The remnants of today's experiments had apparently been swiped from the table, leaving only a distant smell as a reminder. There was no sign of a new advent calendar and while John hadn't entirely expected Sherlock to thrust a replacement into his hands, he had thought there would be something. As it happened, there was something, a small, but significant number on the back of the bedroom door, clearly crafted from metal that looked familiar.

John ran his fingertips over the shape of the number before he pushed lightly at the door. "Sherlock," he said evenly. "What have you been up to?"

"Doing as you asked," said Sherlock and John pushed the door open wider, his mouth falling open as he took in the view.

John had long held the opinion that Sherlock was carved out of some magic type of marble. His body had scars, had marks that spoke of a past John hadn't entirely uncovered. John never tired of watching him move, enjoyed resting in bed while Sherlock stalked round the bedroom, explaining his latest theory, completely unconscious of his own beauty. It was the one place where he didn't seem to calculate everything and John loved the moment when Sherlock, having declared his genius, jumped back in bed and became almost giddy in his desire to do everything all at once.

Naked, Sherlock could stop traffic and on at least one memorable occasion had actually done so.

Nevertheless, John had never seen Sherlock wearing nothing but a pair of socks before and even though Sherlock lounged easily against the wall, his gaze on John, for once John wasn't certain that sex was on the menu.

"Um," he managed. "Are those the stockings I bought to hang on the wall?"

"I sincerely doubt it, since they were in my drawer," said Sherlock. "And they're green."

"Yes, yes, they are. I can see that," said John. "Are you a bit cold?"

"Not particularly," said Sherlock. "I did bring a heater in."

"So you did," said John and smiled. "Uh, so you standing here in a pair of socks is something I should recognise and oh God, you're the first window."

"Obviously they're doors," said Sherlock. "And as you were so insistent that you require a replacement, I thought this might do."

"Yes," said John and nodded as he looked down at the green socks that came up to Sherlock's calves. "It's not a look I usually associate with you."

"I should think not," said Sherlock. "And it is, I think you'll admit, a surprise."

"It's definitely that," said John and licked his bottom lip. "So your replacement for my advent calendar is you in a pair of socks?"

"With a one on the back of the door."

"With that, yes," said John. "But you are replacing my advent calendar with this?"

Sherlock stepped forward, his calves still encased in festive green socks and his curls ridiculously tousled. "You sound disappointed."

"Oh God no," said John and pulled at his jacket, sliding it off quickly so he could reach for Sherlock. He settled one hand on Sherlock's waist and the other on his jaw so John could lean up and kiss him. Sherlock tasted slightly of mint, and John doubted if there'd be any of the chocolate cheesecake he'd left in the fridge. John smiled against Sherlock's mouth and drew back slightly so he could see him. "I'm not disappointed but, er, the socks are not quite you."

"They _are_ festive."

"They're positively glowing with Christmas spirit, but I'd be quite happy if you take them off and we never mention them again." John grinned as he kissed Sherlock. "So is this my window?"

"Door."

"Door then. So am I going to open the door every day to find you naked in cotton. Because let me tell you now, I'm _fine_ with that."

"Now that wouldn't be fraught with surprise," said Sherlock. "You asked for a replacement. I am merely providing it."

"In socks."

"Christmas stockings."

"Don't go there, the imagery alone…" John paused and kissed Sherlock's collar bone. "I'm impressed."

"Of course you are."

"Don't spoil it."

"Spoil nothing," said Sherlock with a grin. "You're impressed, aroused and I don't have to tolerate cardboard. I count this as a success."

"Excellent," said John and slid his hand down Sherlock's chest to tease at the slightly softer flesh of his belly. "So that's my surprise. And my treat?"

"Dear me, John, after all this time, are your detective skills so poor you can't work _that_ out?"

"Just checking," said John and dropped his hand to Sherlock's dick and squeezed slowly. His fingertips slid along the half hard length and felt the heat of his flesh against his rapidly warming fingers. Sherlock took a quick breath as John dropped to his knees and reached for the green cotton, stripping them the socks off quickly. John turned his attention back to the stiffening length of Sherlock's dick and dipped his head to draw his tongue over the sac beneath. Sherlock groaned as John sucked each tender globe in turn and curled his hand round the firm cheek of Sherlock's bottom.

"Better than chocolate," said John as he grinned. "I'm going to make you come in my mouth."

"Obviously," said Sherlock and stroked his fingertips over John's hair. "Your tongue is talented even when you're quiet. Not that you're quiet often. Sometimes you're noisy even here. Not that I mind at all. I like it when you're loud. When you're yelling my name I feel-"

"Shut up, Sherlock," said John and opened his mouth wider to suck on the head of Sherlock's dick. He could taste the salt beneath his tongue, the scent of recently washed flesh and could smell the familiar scent of sweat where Sherlock had moved to get everything in place for John's return. Sherlock leaned back against the wall as John pressed him there, his head dropped back, hair brushing the wallpaper as John indulged himself. John sucked slowly, his lips closed as tight as he dared, creating delicious suction that he knew Sherlock loved. His hand tightened on Sherlock's arse as the man bucked up, his dick sliding further into John's mouth on each roll of his hips.

John moved faster, his hand sliding along the length of Sherlock as he sucked harder. He could feel the slide of warm dick along his tongue, could feel every last inch between fingers and lips. John glanced up, searching for the expression on Sherlock's face he'd come to desire. It was almost a sneer, a catch between the angel and devil of the man, a look of near surrender that could never last long and was a snatched moment that only John ever caused. He was clearly close and John slid his hand down and rubbed his middle finger against the tight little entrance to Sherlock's arse. Sherlock groaned, a ghost of John's name on his lips as he pressed back against John's hand. The wall crushed John's knuckles before Sherlock gave a hard buck and came, his mouth open and _that_ expression on his face.

John swallowed, lips closed round until he felt he could pull back. He licked over his bottom lip and drew back from Sherlock entirely, his knees creaking slightly as he got back to his feet. He was a little surprised when Sherlock reached for him and kissed John hard, his mouth firm and inquisitive against John's own. John had long thought Sherlock kissed him when he'd come in John's mouth just to make a mental note on how he tasted afterward. Not that he minded in the slightest. John grinned and stepped back.

"I like my advent calendar."

"Wonderful," said Sherlock. "Now, will you allow me to think of a replacement for the Christmas tree?"

"Just the calendar," said John. "So I'll come here every day?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "As though I'd be so predictable."

"Not here?"

"You'll have to wait and see."

John wasn't at all sure about waiting, but he felt confident that if he could withstand the shock of green socks on a naked Sherlock and was more than capable of dealing with his more unusual tendencies, he could cope with anything. He was quite certain about it until eight the following morning when he showered and attempted to leave the bathroom. Naked seemed to be the preferred order of advent, but John considered that the wreath was rather too spiky to be hung where it was and shed his towel quickly to start the day with a bang. It made the crime at number three, Clifton Street, a rather nerve wracking moment. Fortunately he was only presented with a snog in a Christmas scarf behind Lestrade's back.

John had always liked advent calendars, but this was the first time he was apprehensive when opening a numbered door.


	2. Lucky number seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock continues his plan to replace John's advent chocolate advent calendar. However, some of his surprises aren't as well received.
> 
> Until he remembers what John likes best.
> 
> Smut, fluff, some chocolate and a terrible abuse of good leather upholstery.

John was not much of a screamer, even under duress. However, he did believe there should be some allowance made when your husband's interpretation of an advent calendar surprise made opening any door a little nerve wracking.

Day four had been the snowball throw from outside their own front door. Sherlock had at least been dressed, but this added nothing to John's experience and he refused the offer of a kiss. Instead he headed to the shops in silence as Sherlock walked after him, justification for a snowball to the face in every word. According to _some_ people it was perfectly acceptable to craft and engineer a snowball for the purpose of surprising your beloved, provided you ensured it was free from debris.

" _You_ said snowball fights could be romantic."

"Yes, when there's snow so you can fight back," said John. "Not when it's just you and your spherically perfect missile!"

The following day John had found an entire barrage of snowballs piled up in the bathroom and an invite to the nearest alley. All well and good, but John had just emerged from behind the shower curtain and the steam turned his missiles into a puddle on the bathroom floor that needed to be cleared up before he dealt with Sherlock. Another snowball to the face and John refused to open any doors for the rest of the day, preferring instead to spend time sulking and watching James Bond films at Sherlock.

Day six was clearly an attempt to make up for earlier misguided events. John loved listening to Sherlock compose and he relished the bare bottomed view of his lover as Sherlock stood in front of the window, performing an elegant riff that hinted of all the wicked things he planned to do to John once he'd put the bow down. John had enjoyed opening the bedroom door to all of _that_ and would have enjoyed everything further if Mrs Hudson hadn't appeared on the stairs and let them know that Sherlock's nakedness had been visible to at least the near side of Baker Street.

John apologised quickly, drew the blinds and insisted that the bow be put away and that Sherlock remain conscious of his environment since John really didn't like sharing everything with the neighbours. The disagreement was mild, but it had been several days since John had been close to anything on a parallel with chocolate and he was increasingly fed up. He was tempted to buy Chocolate Oranges and release Sherlock from his debt, partly so he could open his own front door without treating his husband like an unexploded bomb.

However, John had faith in Sherlock's abilities beyond the crime scene. Their wedding had been a subtle affair, with only the odd touch of showmanship. It had been quiet and rather dignified and John defied anyone to find a more touching vow than the one Sherlock had made before the few witnesses they'd agreed on. Loving, honouring and allowing one's loved one the freedom to pursue dead bodies and brilliance was a loving promise and John had answered it neatly. The contents of the fridge were unmentioned, but there were promises made, a lifelong connection agreed upon and witnessed by those even Sherlock was forced to consider more than associates.

There had been smiles between them but the single kiss at the altar was restrained and neither man had felt willing to mention three little words in front of anyone else. They _were_ said, quiet whispers and frantic declarations, each syllable breathed into the ear of the other as Sherlock and John consumed each other in the hotel room with the ridiculously large bed. Sherlock conceded that they'd made love, that they were in love and that, as bizarre as such a condition was, there were definite physical advantages. There was also a key moment of clarity post orgasm that Sherlock seized upon and declared the perfect time to solve any problem. John preferred sleep, but had rested contentedly as Sherlock typed, scribbled and discovered the mysteries of the universe, often with his body half curled round John's.

Sherlock could solve anything, including the mysteries of the human heart. Creating a replacement for John's advent calendar that worked was surely a matter of patience, (John) and persistence, (Sherlock). So by the seventh of December, John woke alone in bed, determined to deal with each door with his usual resolve. Sherlock could do wonders and John was resolved to see them.

His phone beeped out a familiar reminder of an unread text and John swiped at his eyes and unlocked his phone to read it. John frowned, grabbed for his coat and headed for the front door. He paused before it, unable to do anything else and looked round, searching for the telling number seven that Sherlock would have provided. The door remained passively blank and in something close to desperation, John bent down and flipped the mat, unwilling to be blasted by another snowball just because the number had fallen off. However there was nothing and John's phone beeped again, the text more urgent than the first and John took a deep breath before he swung the heavy door open.

Nothing.

Not a sign of a snowball, not even to the left of the door, where John would have stashed his own. He glanced up and down the street but John had to concede that this door was simply that and today's surprise was still to come. He flagged down a taxi to join Sherlock on site, relieved when he saw Sherlock standing on the edge of a frozen pond, scarf raised high against his jaw as he interrogated Lestrade. John walked up, hands pushed into his pockets as Sherlock turned to smile at him.

"Ah, John. You're here. Professional opinion. How did Mr Simpson die?"

John looked past him to where Sherlock's finger extended. The body was pressed up from beneath the icy surface of the pond. John winced as he looked over the man's fingers, four sticking through the ice while his body floated below. Simpson's eyes were wide and clouded, his mouth parted and below that, his neck offered purple in all the blue and white.

"Well he didn't freeze to death," said John and Lestrade raised an eyebrow. "There," he said. "The lake froze after he drowned. Someone left him here afterward and the surface froze round his fingers."

"Strangled?" asked Sherlock and John bent closer.

"I don't think so," he said. "Certainly didn't kill him. I'd say he was suffocated but it can't have taken long." He glanced back up at Sherlock. "Heart attack, maybe. He looks pretty shocked."

"Yes, of course," said Sherlock and turned back to Lestrade. "Dig him out. You'll find evidence in his left pocket detailing the hotel he met his unfortunate demise. He has, or rather had, a mistress whose husband followed them and took direct action. The booking will be in her name for yesterday. Find the woman and you'll find his killer."

"An affair?" asked John and frowned. "Not much of a mystery. How come you need us?"

"I don't," said Lestrade. "But _he_ turned up. We'd picked up that someone was pissed off with our body. And as soon as we get chummy here out, we'll finalise the details. We can function without him, you know?"

"Oh," said John. "Sherlock?"

"Convenience," said Sherlock and gestured toward the far side of the pond. "I had to get you to meet me here."

He started to walk and John nodded toward Lestrade and followed at a leisurely pace until his stride matched Sherlock's own. "You know you could have just rolled over in bed. I was right there."

"I wasn't sure you were talking to me."

"You flashed the neighbours."

"They looked."

"Of course they looked. You're gorgeous."

Sherlock almost smiled. "So you _are_ talking to me."

"Evidently," said John. "And why here? It's bloody cold, Sherlock. If you're after doing something a bit frisky, I can assure you things _will_ shrivel and you're not to judge. Besides, the police are right there and I don't fancy getting locked up for public indecency."

"Really?" asked Sherlock. "Shame."

"You're kidding."

"I rarely kid," said Sherlock. "Mock, but-"

"All right, so what did you have in mind?"

Sherlock smiled and leaned down to press a kiss just to the left of John's mouth. A soft and welcoming kiss that John couldn't help but turn toward, only to have Sherlock draw back before John could kiss him back. "I've upset you."

"Well, I'm not devastated."

"Nonetheless you are unimpressed with my ingenuity," said Sherlock. "I don't like it."

"So, you're here to impress me?" John smirked. "Could kiss me again?"

"I could," said Sherlock. "But I have rather grander plans."

"Ah. And do they include snowballs?"

"I believe I have exhausted that particular scenario," said Sherlock and gestured to the path that led out of the park. "Here, I got you this."

John took the bar of dairy milk and raised an eyebrow. "I said snowballs weren't the same as chocolate. You didn't have to."

"I know I didn't."

"So why?"

Sherlock huffed. "It's obvious."

"Is it?"

"Isn't it?"

John licked over his bottom lip and pushed the bar in his pocket. "An apology, then?"

Sherlock nodded and held the branch away as they passed through. "Partially."

"And a surprise?"

"A little," said Sherlock. "This isn't our first Christmas together."

"No."

"But it is our first Christmas _together_ and I thought you might not be aware I have thought about it."

"You think about everything," said John. "Well, some things, anyway. And I didn't think for a second this would have passed unnoticed."

"No?"

"No," said John and reached gently for Sherlock's gloved hand. He folded his fingers round and smiled as he felt Sherlock entwine his fingers with his own. "I sometimes wonder what you've deleted to keep all the knowledge you have of me in there. I mean it might be a big hard drive but it's still finite. And some of the stuff I've told you isn't important."

"If it's about you, it's all important."

John squeezed Sherlock's fingers. "So I always knew you'd count a first as being important, because _I_ think it's important."

"Ah," said Sherlock. "In that case, perhaps you won't mind."

"Won't mind what?"

Sherlock nodded toward the car, somewhat reminiscent of Mycroft's mode of transporting John to one place or another. It was slightly longer, just as sleek and a metal number seven hung from the door handle. John raised an eyebrow before he stepped forward and looked back over his shoulder at Sherlock. "Barrage of balloons?"

"Maybe," smiled Sherlock. "Find out."

John picked up the seven and stuffed it in his pocket before he pulled the handle. The door opened easily and revealed nothing more than a welcoming back seat, clean and soft leather and a lush, carpeted floor. Nothing particularly different than any other back seat, though John had to admit it looked rather spacious. It was conspicuous only in that it appeared to contain no surprise whatsoever and John paused and turned back to Sherlock. "Serious comfort is my surprise?"

"Oh yes," said Sherlock and licked over his bottom lip. "Why don't you try it out?"

"Ah," said John and climbed inside. The backseat was every bit as comfortable as it looked and the panel between the front and back was open. The back of the chauffeur's head was neat, his posture perfect and his glasses clearly reflecting indifference to his client's requirements. "Do this a lot, do you?" John asked without hope of a response as Sherlock climbed in beside him. "He's chatty."

"He's paid to drive, not to take an interest in his clients," said Sherlock and leaned forward to close the panel securely. John noticed it seemed slightly more robust than other divider's he'd seen and he assumed it might be slightly more soundproofed.

"So, we go for a drive and we do what exactly? It's dark in here."

Sherlock switched the light on and looked at John as music rolled out of the speakers. Nothing John could name, but he recognised the notes, the violin in particular and grinned back at Sherlock. "I apologise."

"Accepted," said John and pulled his gloves off. "How long have we got?"

"I've booked three hours. I suggested outside London so I can't guarantee where we'll end up, but he's on a very generous tip so I doubt we'll hit too many potholes."

"Sounds fantastic," said John as he pushed at his coat. "Does this seat move?"

"A bit," said Sherlock as he unfastened his coat. "I take it this meets with your approval?"

"A bit of a shag in the back of a posh motor? Absolutely," said John and reached for Sherlock. He set his hand on Sherlock's cheek and stroked, feeling the ridge of cheekbone beneath the pad of his thumb. He felt the slightly raised surface of the occasional mole, the faint hint of stubble Sherlock rigorously shaved before he did anything else most mornings. John had, over time, kissed and licked every last bit of the man, favouring parts as he did, his mind set on knowing as much as he could, recognising and committing to memory every last bit of Sherlock Holmes.

He kissed Sherlock, his mouth fitting against the full lips of his lover, his tongue flickering out to taste lip and tongue as he drew in closer. John always closed his eyes when he kissed Sherlock, favouring each sensation of taste and touch, the familiarity they kissed with as Sherlock licked back, his lips moving against John's own. John didn't object in the slightest as Sherlock's hands busied themselves beneath his jumper, pulling his shirt free so that John's skin was deliciously exposed and touched.

There was a bounce beneath the wheels and they were knocked back against the seat. Sherlock broke the kiss and glanced toward the divider, apparently considering a further conversation with their driver, but John wasn't willing for this particular window to close. He pushed Sherlock back against the leather and unfastened his shirt. John spread his fingers wide over the smooth expanse of his chest and bent his head, his tongue flat as he ran it over Sherlock's nipple. It peaked beneath his tongue and John paused, sucked and let his teeth drag over the bottom as he worked open the buckle of Sherlock's belt.

"John," murmured Sherlock as he lounged beneath him. "You are _amazing_."

John lifted his head. "And distracting."

"It wasn't a very interesting case," said Sherlock and lifted his hips as John drew his trousers down. "This is far more fascinating."

"Because you're going to get off."

"Because it's you," said Sherlock and reached for John's jumper. "Come on, let go. I want you naked."

"I really like this tendency of yours."

"Good, because you're still not naked."

John giggled as the jumper caught round his neck and one arm got caught. He was stuck in his clothes as Sherlock had free reign to unfasten the rest of his clothes and toss them to a corner of the floor. John finally untangled himself and breathed out, freed from all his clothes, his shoes and socks toed off quickly and pushed away. He flexed his arms slightly and moved forward, his hands on Sherlock's skin as he climbed onto the back seat.

"Did I mention you're a genius?"

"Once or twice," said Sherlock. "At this?"

"I'm not sure there's a scale," said John as he leaned in and pressed his lips against Sherlock's throat. "I am impressed."

"Ah."

"And I'm the only one you need to impress so, well done you." John licked at the line that slid down from throat to collar bone, his hand palming the healthy erection that strained at his fingertips. "You know, this could count as a Christmas present."

"It's not," said Sherlock and arched his back, one thigh lifted, pressed against John's hip. "It's a door."

"Window," said John and slid his other hand along Sherlock's thigh, his fingers stretched out over the curve of warm Sherlockian arse. John pressed forward, dick pushing against the soft, fine skin where torso met thigh before he slid up. He could feel the heat of Sherlock's erection against his own, the rub and press where his excitement showed, the liquid slick at the tip. He'd been to bed with Sherlock countless times, though he suspected they'd never be countless to Sherlock. John Watson had embraced every part of the man he'd married, loved him emotionally, mentally and physically and yet each time they fucked, John felt he was party to a secret, a delicious little secret love affair that they hid from everyone else. John Watson married Sherlock Holmes, but John fucked Sherlock in all the dark and dirty places they could.

They were wicked, especially when it was allowed. Sherlock pushed a small tube into John's fingers and once slippery, John pushed forward, his fingertips stroking into the tight little entrance to the lush arse he worshipped as often as he could. Sherlock wriggled, pushing back against John as he stroked, welcoming and warm and everything John had privately asked for and Sherlock had publicly answered. John groaned as he drew fingers back and took his dick in hand, head pressed against the slippery entrance. "You give pretty good presents."

"Pretty good? It's my _body_ ," said Sherlock. "It's what you want."

"I want," said John. "Oh God, do I want."

"Then take," insisted Sherlock and John slid forward, the heat of Sherlock's body welcoming his own. He could feel the lean and press of hips against Sherlock's arse and the backs of his thighs, John's own knee on the floor as he moved forward. He'd always liked sex and not just the physical release of it. John liked the sticky, sweaty and smelly parts of sex, the noises that occasionally made him stop and giggle, sometimes made his head spin and always brought him to his knees. John loved feeling Sherlock's tension, the way he gripped tight, his hands clutching at John's body as John drove into him. He loved feeling the connection, the press of cock in arse and the push of dick against belly. Every last inch of him buried inside Sherlock, his balls slapping lightly against Sherlock's arse on every stroke. All of this and Sherlock's eyes on him.

John caught his breath as he saw Sherlock biting his bottom lip. His tongue flicked out and his hands gripped Johns upper arms and his lower back. Not enough room to do more than clutch at one another, but there was always too much room between them when they weren't fucking. John groaned, growled as he picked up speed, drawing back, barely more than the head inside Sherlock before he drove in again, long strokes as he heard his breathing echoed by Sherlock. John found the slick head of Sherlock's dick again and stroked as he drew closer, determined to enjoy the big finish together. And when he came, his eyes closed, his arse clenched and his dick buried deep within the man he claimed as husband, John's hand moved faster, clutching, squeezing until Sherlock moaned heavily and spilled over both of them.

"Best idea ever," said John as he dropped forward. "Oh fuck me, Sherlock. You are-"

"Brilliant," said Sherlock, his skin shining with sweat. "I am-"

"All that," said John. "Mine."

"Oh," said Sherlock, "well, _obviously_."

"Is it?" asked John and moved awkwardly, easing back carefully and grinning when Sherlock passed him a warm damp cloth. "Thanks. You don't wear the ring all the time."

"I'm always married," said Sherlock. "I said the words. I meant them."

"So did I."

"Then what's the problem?"ß

"There's no problem." John grinned and leaned in to kiss Sherlock. He lingered against the man's mouth, feeling the way he wriggled, his thigh sliding down John's own. "I just don't know how you're going to top this."

"I can top anything," said Sherlock and checked John's watch. "We do have another two hours, John."

He grinned. "Don't think I hadn't noticed. And I _will_ be taking advantage."

"I'm counting on it," said Sherlock. "So the seventh of December is a success?"

"It's a definite success," said John. "I'll keep it in mind tomorrow when you do something mental."

"The snowballs were an excellent idea."

"Not in my face."

"In your chest?"

"Try something that isn't attacking me."

"What else?" asked Sherlock with a huff. "I can think of a number of ways to surprise you but the possibility you'll be offended is high for some."

"Then drop those."

"All right," said Sherlock and raised an eyebrow as John reached for the chocolate. "You're eating that now?"

"I'm hungry," said John as he peeled back the wrapper. "And it's a sugar boost."

"You don't need it."

"I want it," said John and grinned. "It's melted a bit."

"It's a touch warm in here."

"Mhmm, I wasn't complaining."

John broke a piece off and held it out, tip of his fingers as Sherlock leaned forward. John watched carefully as Sherlock licked the chocolate from John's fingertips and smiled slowly.

"So," said Sherlock. "If you could open any door, anywhere and be surprised, what would you want?"

"It's your idea," said John. "You surprise me."

"What would you want?"

John paused, leaned in and kissed Sherlock firmly, tasting the chocolate and everything meant in that touch of lip to lip. "Always you," he said quietly and smiled. "And naked wherever possible."

Sherlock smirked. "It's a good job it's a long coat, then," he said. "I shall bear it in mind."

"Good," said John and leaned in. "Now about your being a genius at sex…"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You glorious people. I hope you are all enjoying a wonderful December and that your own advent calendars are bringing you grins and giggles.
> 
> If not, I offer you naked John and naked Sherlock. x


	3. Fourteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Following his success with the car, Sherlock dazzles and impresses John with a Holmsian advent calendar.
> 
> So John writes on him in melted chocolate.
> 
> Because boys are pretty in the kitchen.
> 
> So much fluff and smut!

On the eighth day Sherlock took his pants off at a crime scene and John was happy.

On the ninth day, Sherlock showered at Mrs Hudson's house to utilise another door and John was slightly less happy, given that Mrs Hudson did not want her tenants having wild monkey sex in her home. However, naked Sherlock is what he'd asked for and John had seen plenty of warm flesh during the week, sometimes lit by the morning sun, sometimes by the lamp by the bed and once or twice by the reflection of the snow. He worried about the snow, sure that Sherlock would put his health at risk simply by getting far too cold, so on the tenth day John claimed a clean fridge was a wonderful surprise and buried them both beneath the sheets in the bedroom that had once belonged to Sherlock alone.

The eleventh of December belonged entirely to a house that revealed trap doors and had secrets and surprises of its own, none of which had been arranged by Sherlock. The family who owned it had vanished and Sherlock had explained that while their disappearance might have appeared mysterious, it was simply due to an absent minded neighbour who had forgotten to let the milkman know they were away. John hadn't minded, especially when he'd fallen through the nook in the sitting room and landed firmly at Sherlock's feet. The look Sherlock gave him spoke of an abrupt end to the case and John had barely restrained himself in the cab ride home.

John had thrown open the bathroom door on the twelfth with glee, sure that if it was snowballs again, he'd chase Sherlock down and demonstrate his excellent aim and tactics. Sherlock had instead opted for a clear shower curtain and John, ever keen to perfect his Sherlock-watching, had been treated to a show, a clear demonstration on how to ensure Sherlock was completely clean everywhere. John had enjoyed it thoroughly, joined his husband and ensured he was dirty enough to be washed clean again. The water meter didn't know what had hit it.

The thirteenth had been slightly less successful and although John had yanked on the front door, worried that Sherlock had decided to strip off in the road again, it had revealed only carol singers. Not very good carol singers at that and John quickly decided that the only coming the faithful should get would be behind closed doors not at 221b. Sherlock had sent a text, apologised and revealed himself later the same evening, wrapped in his coat and not much else. John had spent hours enjoying warming the man up and kissed him when Sherlock tried to explain what he'd been up to, how he'd been trying to provide what John wanted.

"Just you, naked," said John.

And so the next day John had woken alone, the bed cold where Sherlock had left hours earlier. His phone chirped out a text alert and John scrambled for it, hand delving beneath the covers where only the night before he'd proved again how much he enjoyed married sex. His phone felt a little warm and John could feel a mark on his thigh where he'd clearly slept on it. He couldn't remember bringing the phone into the bed, let alone losing it under the covers. It wasn't the smartest thing he could have done and John rubbed his hand over his eyes before he slid his thumb over the screen to read the message.

As it happened, he wasn't as careless as he'd imagined and the screen flashed something he was very familiar with. John stared, touched again just as the screen dimmed and assured himself that it was indeed a rectangular frame of flesh he'd been kissing last night. He looked closer, examined the splay of freckles and licked over his bottom lip as he tried to picture exactly where this constellation lay. He was almost certain it was the back of Sherlock's left calf and turned it just as a second picture landed on his screen and tempted him further.

_Why are you sending me pictures? ~ JW_

Scant minutes later, his phone beeped a response, a clear view of a place on Sherlock's upper thigh that he would willingly lick, kiss and caress, but not through his phone. John turned the screen, aware that Sherlock was not only naked but not in bed with him, a situation he longed to correct. He licked over his bottom lip as he considered the shadows on Sherlock's thigh and tapped out a second text.

_Why are you sending me pictures instead of showing me in person? ~ JW_

Again, he received another picture, this one of a more intimate area of Sherlock's flesh, all pale and pink and lush, the downy hair on his inner thigh only marginally lighter than the thatch at his groin. John tilted his head, tilted the screen and tried to pick out any details that distinguished Sherlock's location. A naked man should not be alone, especially when John's dick was wonderfully responsive to the view and lacked a Sherlock to attend to it.

His fingers touched the keyboard on the phone as another picture flashed on screen, this one detailing base to just below the head of Sherlock's erection, pinker, a deeper hue as Sherlock's fingers held it proudly in front of the camera. It was blatantly unfair, flashing naked penis at a man who would very much like to play with it in person and John dashed out the text, a quick, 'where the fuck are you' before he considered what to do next. He scrambled from the bed, phone still in hand and the sheets wrapped round his bottom half as John padded through the kitchen and looked round.

_Open a door ~ SH_

John truly believed Sherlock wasn't a tease. The man was far more interested in gratification, scarcely acknowledging any delay, no matter how necessary. He wasn't fond of torture, preferring instead to show off, to flash and grin over an impressive display, whether naked or cerebral. So, while John did spit out one or two curses beneath his breath, he opened the fridge, bathroom and front door before a tiny detail in the corner of the screen gave the game away completely. He grabbed as much free sheet as he could manage before he mounted the stairs to the room he'd formerly slept in and pushed on the red door, opening it wide as he could before he stepped inside.

"You could have stayed downstairs. The bed's fantastic downstairs."

"You wanted a surprise," said Sherlock, naked and stretched over a narrow bed-frame. He gestured to his own languid and deliciously inviting torso. "Surprise."

"I see that," said John and licked over his lip as he closed the door behind him. "Our bed's comfortable."

"I didn't realise you'd decided comfort was the be all and end all. I thought you were still an adventurer."

"I've adventured beneath our sheets," said John. "A man can be offered a few luxuries, can't he?"

"John, it's sex," said Sherlock. "Comfort shouldn't feature highly."

"It should when you've got a bum leg," said John. "And my back. You _never_ consider my back."

"John, your back is fine," said Sherlock. "And I've given you the right side of the bed, closest to the bathroom, easier manoeuvring in the middle of the night."

"You're very considerate."

"I am extraordinary," said Sherlock. "And I am, as I have been trying to point out, naked, aroused and wondering why you're spending time talking."

John bit his lip briefly. "We could go downstairs."

"Are you really turning down sex in here?"

"No," said John. "But it's early."

Sherlock grinned and moved fluidly, rising from the bed as John considered the whole of him. Naked parts were all well and good, (and permanently saved to memory) but flesh, close and available to be touched, would always win. John stood his ground, gripped the sheet as Sherlock walked the few steps over to him and he tilted his head up as Sherlock set his hands on John's bare shoulders.

"I thought you wanted me any time of day."

"I have you every time of day."

"For this."

"This," began John and grinned as Sherlock kissed him, "is a bonus."

"Ah. So you'd do without it."

"Prefer not to."

"Excellent," said Sherlock as he leaned in and kissed John hard enough to steal his breath. "So, bed now?"

John paused, his lips wet from Sherlock's kiss and he reached for the tinsel that hung from the bedroom mirror. He draped it round Sherlock's neck, a mock scarf as Sherlock looked back at him. "Shiny."

"It's a touch itchy," said Sherlock. "And scratchy. And I think it might give me a rash."

"Might," agreed John and reached for the end of it and tugged, drawing the tinsel a little tighter before he pulled it away completely. He tossed it to the floor and reached for Sherlock's hand. "I want you decorated."

"Oh John, please don't say this is about the reindeer antlers. You know how I feel about them."

"It's not," said John and walked down to the kitchen. He patted the surprisingly clear table surface and as Sherlock climbed up, John pulled out a pan, filled it with water and set it on the hob. Sherlock watched as John broke up chunks of chocolate and set it in a bowl above the water. "You realise if you burn me, it will seriously detract from anything else you have in mind."

"I want to see my name on you," said John as he stirred the chocolate slowly. "I want to write my name on your skin and have that picture on my phone."

"I could have done that," said Sherlock. "I didn't know about that kink, John."

John grinned as the chocolate melted. "You don't know everything about me."

"I think I know everything that's relevant."

"You didn't know this."

"Until it was relevant, no. Now it is and I do. So why don't you paint me any way you like and I'll…" Sherlock paused. "I'll sit here patiently."

"Oh now that _is_ a miracle," said John and lifted the spoon. Chocolate drizzled from the metal, twirling in a circle on the liquid surface. "And I think we're done."

"Excellent," said Sherlock and leaned back on his elbows as he watched John. "I take it you've checked the temperature."

"I want to decorate you, not burn you," said John and dipped his finger in. He drew it back and waved it toward Sherlock. "Melted, not boiling."

"Marvellous. Now how about applying it?"

"Hmm," said John and licked his fingertip. "I don't think I'm quite up to finger painting."

"It has its advantages."

"Hang on," said John and reached for the drawer. He pulled out a piping bag and with nimble fingers spooned chocolate in and snipped the end off as he turned back to Sherlock. "Try not to breathe too deeply."

"Not an issue," said Sherlock and leaned back further, his chest a bare canvas as John drizzled warm chocolate over his body. "You didn't pay this much attention when you made eclairs."

John's tongue poked out the side of his mouth as he concentrated. "They didn't talk."

"Unambitious."

"Unambitious pastries? Well, it's a new concept for me, I'll admit."

Sherlock glanced down over his skin and arched an eyebrow. "Yours is a short name and that's not simply…" He tilted his head. "Property of?"

"I thought about, 'if lost, please return to', but I don't intend anyone else to see this."

"I can see this."

"Indeed," said John and looked up. "And you're under instruction."

"I don't remember agreeing that."

"You promised to replace my advent calendar. And I must admit I like my chocolate served this way."

Sherlock dipped a finger in the chocolate drizzled against his nipple. "Are you going to lick it off?"

"Eventually," said John and untucked the sheet from round his waist. It dropped to the floor as he reached for Sherlock's feet and lifted them to the table. "Spread those ridiculously long legs, you sexy bastard."

Sherlock laughed and gripped the edge of the table with his toes, relaxing as John let the last of the chocolate drizzle down toward his groin. "You really do have the most poetic pillow talk."

"When there's a pillow, you'll get Keats, until then, stay put and let me taste you."

"As you say," murmured Sherlock and lounged as John dipped his head and ran his tongue between thigh and groin. He lifted his head, chocolate smeared on his lip as Sherlock grinned back at him. "I'm not complaining. Pray, continue."

"There's a lot of chocolate."

"Yes. You put it there."

John nodded and drew his tongue up along the length of Sherlock's cock. It jumped beneath his touch, John's fingertips wrapped round, smudged in chocolate and heat as he licked and swallowed. The scent of salt and vague sweat that John had filed as Sherlock smells lay beneath the chocolate, but together it tasted like the oddest, tastiest dessert John had put together. He pressed the palms of his hands against Sherlock's inner thighs and dipped his head again. Each lick of his tongue made Sherlock's cock harder, the heat beneath the melted chocolate every bit tempting.

John looked up as Sherlock stretched on the table, Sherlock's cock risen and pressing against John's cheek as he sprawled. John's writing stayed bright and clear across Sherlock's chest, 'property of John Watson' written in the same swirling letters that rested on a thousand prescriptions over the years. There was nothing but warmth and desire in the kitchen and John slid down, his tongue touched to the soft and vulnerable sac drawn tight beneath. Deep brown liquid dribbled down and he caught every drop, licking over the delicate skin, touched carefully to the sensitive globes beneath. He never tired of hearing Sherlock groan, his voice an illicit aural painting of sex and secrets.

John lifted his head as Sherlock's cock rose higher, the skin tight and stretched over the heavy length. "I was right about you?"

"Possible," murmured Sherlock and grinned lazily. "What this time?"

"You're a pussycat if you're handled properly."

"Handled? I don't need to be-"

"Calm down," said John and leant heavily on the table. "You think this can take both of us?"

"Of course," said Sherlock. "Explain."

John moved easily and climbed up onto the table. He leaned down, kissed Sherlock and was kissed back before he settled alongside him on the smooth wood. "I meant everyone's always telling me how prickly you are, that you don't like people."

"I don't like people. Most people. Well, some people." Sherlock huffed. "I don't dislike many, I just don't want them here."

"I know," said John. "It's like us."

"Us?"

"Yeah," said John. "You like me."

"Evidently."

"And I really like you."

"John, is this actually going somewhere or is it a prelude to a romantic declaration? I don't mind, if that makes you happy, but I am well aware that you love me, so please don't feel obliged to say it every day. I won't delete it. It's important and I remember it daily."

John chuckled and kissed him, his hand settled alongside Sherlock's skin, touching every last bit of the man he could reach. Sherlock sighed and wriggled closer, his hand sliding along John's side, sensitive fingertips brushing over flesh unloved until the detective decided to devote himself so completely. John smiled against Sherlock's lips and shifted on the unforgiving wood to get closer still. His cock brushed against Sherlock's own, head touched to shaft until Sherlock rolled his hips and made every last nerve tingle.

"I meant," said John as he reached for Sherlock's hip. "That you'll either like me or you won't. Nothing I do will change it."

"One or two things."

"Nothing I'm likely to do," said John. "I can yell and swear and scream and get fed up with everything you do to this damned table, but it doesn't change how you see me."

"I see you clearly, that's all," said Sherlock and rolled forward, pressing John to the wood. He rolled his hips, his erection sliding along John's, half jabbing him in the hip. "You matter."

John grinned. "Now who's romantic?"

"It's always you. Sometimes it's ridiculously you."

"Bit of ridiculousness isn't bad."

"You never do just a bit."

"I like things in excess," said John and slid his hands over Sherlock's ample behind as he tugged him closer. "Are you just going to lie there?"

"Chocolate's hardly adequate lubricant."

"I'm not asking you to fuck me, I just thought-"

"Ah, a bit of mutual stimulation."

"You old romantic," giggled John and as Sherlock reached between them and wrapped his hand round, John arched his back and pushed his hips up. "Oh now that's really good."

"Of course it is," said Sherlock and slid his hand over the length of them. "This is really going to make a mess."

"As long as the table's still standing," murmured John. He dropped his head back as Sherlock's hand kept a steady, tight pace. His cock was always wonderfully tended to in Sherlock's hands, but he loved to feel the heat, the differences between them as he felt foreskin stroke against his own. The rough curls at the base of Sherlock's cock tickled, tangled against his own and John wanted to feel Sherlock spill, aware that he controlled as much as he could, even when he was at the edge of passion. He knew Sherlock did his best to match John's orgasm with his own, but he never quite managed it and John would have been secretly disappointed if he could.

They writhed on the table, feet pushing and slipping against the wood as Sherlock wrapped his hand tighter still and John felt his control slipping away. He looked up, saw Sherlock's intense gaze, all ice and beauty, his eyes narrowed but focused on John. John glanced down, saw the smudged chocolate that was almost legible, letters heated and sticking to Sherlock's chest. Property of, printed, questioned and accepted and John came hard, warm spurts of semen stroking Sherlock's hand and belly. John dropped his head back to the wood as Sherlock's hand stroked harder.

"Sherlock," breathed John as he reached down, shaking hand covering Sherlock's own. "Come."

With a loud groan Sherlock pushed forward, hips almost crushing John's own, their hands tangled and sticky between them. He spilled against John's skin, coating them both in slick, slippery white, chocolate smudged and rubbing off where they'd moved. He dropped down, hot mouth against John's neck, lips open and tongue pushed out to taste the salt of his sweat.

John patted Sherlock's shoulder as the man recovered his wits enough to move again. He kissed John and dropped back against the table, spent and grinning, this expression now exclusive viewing to John alone.

"I think I'd like to hear it now."

"Hmm?"

Sherlock turned his head. "Sentiment."

"Ah," said John and lifted his free hand to brush Sherlock's cheek. "I love you," he said. "And marriage was a good idea."

"Excellent," said Sherlock and closed his eyes, lips still turned to a smile. "I agree entirely."

"Good."

John's opinion of day fourteen was that it had been the best window so far. The shower afterward was warm and snug, the pair of them scrubbed down before retiring to bed where Sherlock managed much of his work from the laptop. He even seemed to get on board with rewards and John woke the day after and opened the mirrored interior of the wardrobe to find Sherlock had busied himself in the early morning. Written backward in purple ink, so it could be clearly seen in his reflection were four simple, but elegant words :

Loved by Sherlock Holmes

John grinned, reached for his shirt and prepared himself to create a window or two of his own.


End file.
